


This story is brought to you by the letter D.

by shimere277



Category: Drake's Venture (1980)
Genre: M/M, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 23:10:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shimere277/pseuds/shimere277
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drake has a sleepless night in Ireland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This story is brought to you by the letter D.

            The Earl of Essex was a very particular man, the sort who arranges things just so, the sort of man who gets upset if his orders aren’t obeyed down to the last detail.  And so, on the front, up to his knees in Irish blood and muck from the three days’ rain, Drake found to his dismay that he was not going to be allowed to bunk with one of his junior officers from the _Falcon_.  Drake had already been assigned to a tent shared with one of Devereux’s retainers, one in alphabetical proximity to his own surname.  
            Drake was both annoyed and a little bit nervous.  He’d encountered some of these gentleman soldiers before.  His eagerness to please, to impress had quickly soured into rage upon meeting their rejection, became yet worse when he realized for the most part they but played at war.  He was prepared to meet hostility and disdain; he was prepared to nurse his own silent loathing.  
            Thomas Doughtie rose from his seat and smiled, clasping Drake’s hand.  “I have heard many tales of your intrepid adventures in the Americas, Captain Drake,” he said.  His eyes locked with Drake’s, held them for a minute longer than was to be expected.  
            Drake noticed that the rest of the day was marked with a peculiar lightness, and wished he could drop anchor to assure he would not go floating off into the cerulean sky.  
            “The weather hath improved apace,” he said at sup, feeling absolutely moronic the minute the words came out of his mouth.  
            Doughtie leaned a little closer and told Drake an amusing story of how Richard Broughton, Essex’s right hand man, was pitched headlong into mud when his recalcitrant horse chose not to pursue the retreating Irish.  Later, Drake’s recollection of the conversation would be something like this: Doughtie smelled nice.  Some strange exotic scent that Drake couldn’t place, spices and musk and incense.  Drake noticed this sort of thing.  
            Before retiring to bed that night, Drake splashed on a copious amount of rosewater.  
            Drake was nervous, but Doughtie drew him out with questions, making him feel comfortable, making him feel of account.  Soon he was spinning a mariner’s tale, talking and laughing more than was his wont, while Doughtie undressed unselfconsciously.  
            Doughtie’s lean flank glowed in the moonlight seeping into the tent.  Drake realized that he was no longer relaxed.  The sensation was not unfamiliar, but the conundrum was.  If he were on ship, he would make certain overtures, not likely to be refused.  Not quite a command, but, well, a command nonetheless, unless the sailor so chosen fancied swabbing decks and slapping tar on the hull instead of dinner at the captain’s table every night.  Drake also knew that if he were to make such a coarse suggestion to one of the other retainers, he would likely end up in the stocks.  But Doughtie was different.  Drake couldn’t read him.  
            The night was cold, and Doughtie was warm, pressed close to Drake.  The gentleman was soon asleep, snoring elegantly.  Drake slept not one wink; it was impossible to rest disturbed by the clamor of his beating heart.  After about half an hour, Doughtie flung an arm carelessly over Drake’s shoulder.  Drake did not stir, scarcely allowing himself to breathe for fear of dislodging it.  
            Doughtie awoke, refreshed; Drake was still wide awake, stoked by that particular manic euphoria common to lovers everywhere.  “Thy shoulders are locked with tension, Francis Drake,” the gentleman observed.  Drake marveled how quickly he had slipped into familiarity.  “Mayhap I can be of assistance.”  His able fingers sunk into the corded knots of Drake’s back.  Beginning at the neck, he moved down the spine until reaching the lower back, lingering at the join between torso and buttocks.  Despite himself, Drake sighed.  
            Doughtie allowed his hand to brush carelessly against Drake’s thigh.  Drake shivered but made no protest.  Soon Doughtie’s hands were everywhere.  He nuzzled at the back of Drake’s neck.  Drake rolled over to face him.  Somehow, although they were lying down, Drake stumbled and fell into the dark pools of Doughtie’s eyes.  
            Before he knew it, he was reaching for Doughtie, kissing him.  He didn’t know how to kiss a gentleman, but Doughtie responded with passion and with tenderness.  The clench lasted far longer than Drake’s custom.  
            Doughtie reached into his valise, retrieved a pot of scented cream.  It smelled of spices and musk and incense; it smelled of Thomas Doughtie.  He anointed Drake’s cock, marking his territory in the midst of the very act of submission.  
            When they had spent themselves, Doughtie lay in Drake’s arms, whispering endearments.  Drake felt sucked in by his smile, his voice, his extravagant eyelashes.  Drake felt like a bee drawn into the secret center of some exotic flower, like those he had seen in the New World.  He tried not to think of how many other bees had been there before him.  He talked about his dream of sailing the virgin Pacific instead.  
            Doughtie did more than listen; he encouraged.  Drake was blinded by the vision of the gentleman hanging from his arm like an ornament as he plundered the wealth of the orient.  Drake imagined what it would be like to sail with Doughtie, to face unspeakable dangers with his steel cushioned by the raw silk of Doughtie’s adoration, his devotion.  Soon, Drake would come to rely on that devotion as much as he relied on Doughtie’s strong right arm.  It was like a drug.  Withdrawal was most unpleasant.  
            At breakfast, Drake saw Doughtie talking to Richard Broughton, saw him lean forward, casually touching the other man’s arm.  Drake’s knuckles were white as he clenched his knife, stabbing at his mutton.  Drake took comfort in the fact that Broughton begins with B.

 


End file.
